


Short Shorts Sidewalk Chalk

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [88]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bottom Sam, Breathplay, Curtain Fic, Dean Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dean-Centric, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, Flashbacks, Genderfuck, Genderqueer Sam, Happy Ending, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Old Married Couple, Oral Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Winchester, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Top Dean, Young Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:57:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4305972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't think twice about the simple facts before him: it's Saturday, Sam is in short-shorts, and they have the entire day free. Until their day sees a painful interruption, courtesy of the past. Luckily, Sam is there to take care of him as he is--without exception or condition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Short Shorts Sidewalk Chalk

**Author's Note:**

> Song at the end: "Let it Go" by James Bray. (thank you anon!)

“The hell are you doing outside?”

“Sitting.”

“…but why?”

“Dean, some people enjoy being outside in the sun.”

“What the fuck’s the point? Inside has television and mini-donuts.”

“You brought the bag of mini-donuts out here.”

“Well, only because I had to come outside to yell at you.”

“Oookay.”

“Hey. Hold my donuts.”

“What? No, they’re your donuts.”

“Just hold them, will you? Man’s gotta position himself to sit… fuck…”

“Don’t hold onto my shoulder—your hands are covered in powdered sugar! That’s so gross.”

“Do you come out here to whine as loud as possible? Jesus, turn it down a notch, you’re waking up owls.”

“Give me that bag.”

“Hey! A second ago you didn’t want it!”

“A second ago I didn’t have to deal with you!”

“Well then me and _my_ bag of fried dough will just waltz the fuck back inside!”

“Good! While you’re waltzing, would you finish painting the garage door like I asked you to a million times last week? You know, we have property values to consider in this neighborhood!”

“Oh, quiet down you old fart, like anyone cares about our stupid garage door.”

“It’s halfway painted!”

“So?”

“You wrote—Dean, you lazy #$*!, start here tomorrow—in white paint!”

“Heh, oh yeah. I should have written out the word fuck. Maybe it would’ve made the papers.”

“No, what would’ve made the papers would have been you finishing it on time.”

“Get off my ass, Sammy, it’s Saturday. Unless… you wanna be on my ass.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does.”

“How’d you explain it once? You’re the positive side of a battery, not the negative?”

“I said that?”

“Does your eloquence surprise you? Yes, yes you did.”

“Fuck no. When?”

“I don’t remember.”

“If it involved you nagging at me, you remember. C’mon, when was it?”

“Uh… I don’t know… I was sixteen?”

“Well, shit. Like hell I was gonna let you top then. You could barely bottom.”

“We’d already been having sex for like… four years, what do you mean I could barely bottom? And hey, don’t you think that maybe, just maybe, you were responsible for some of those lackluster moments? Remember the time you rode the Tilt-a-Whirl in Jackson eight fucking times in a row and _insisted_ that we fuck right after because _you_ thought it’d be fun? You puked all over.”

“Anyone would puke all over after riding that thing eight times in a row,” Dean counters, smirking proudly. “Besides, baby, I didn’t get any puke on your ass. Just your shoes, if I remember correctly.”

Sam’s nose scrunches in utter, unabashed disgust. “You are the worst, Dean. I sure hope I haven’t disappointed you over the years, since you’re saying I was shit in bed then.”

The block is quiet for a Saturday. There’s a carnival not too far away, over in the Costco parking lot. Dean was going to suggest visiting—and maybe riding the Tilt-a-Whirl—but that idea is probably better off in the cold, dark ground… for today. It is open tomorrow.

Bumping their shoulders together, Dean grunts. “Stop being such a drama queen, Sam. You were not shit in bed. I was just teasing.”

This only earns him a dignified, snooty sniff. “Hmph.”

Mid-July and the city has begun its surges of heat waves and humidity overloads. Sam’s hair frizzes and curls, especially at the ends. Dean has an urge to bite at one particularly curly strand. He files that away for later; might help cool things down. Or heat things up. He could go with either one.

Today is meant for around the house shit, like painting the god damn garage door or mowing the lawn. But when Dean didn’t hear the lawn mower going, he grabbed his bag of donuts and came outside to investigate. He found Sam sitting on the front step, elbows on his knees and staring off into nothingness like Cat does when she’s not eating or peeing.

Dressed in denim shorts that are just a little too short, Sam rocks forward.

Dean appreciates the view.

“You could try topping,” he offers as an olive branch. “Might not be so bad.”

It would probably be hell. Sam is the owner of ten inch co—

“Quit staring at my ass, Dean.”

Grumbling, Dean stuffs a donut in his mouth. “Juu kno whu yur pawbum if Sam?”

“You speaking with food in your mouth?” He looks over and Dean smiles, cheeks stuffed with powdered donut guts. “Oh, that’s charming.”

After he gulps down what’s in his mouth—ha—Dean clears his throat. “You don’t know how to relax.”

Sam picks at a stray piece of string on Dean’s shorts, which are much less sexy than what Sam’s wearing. “I know how to relax.”

With the back of his hand, Dean wipes sugar off his mouth. “No you don’t. Here, help me up.”

“I don’t wanna touch your hands.”

“Too bad, it’s either you touch my hand or I touch your hair and the back of your neck with these.” He wiggles his fingers in front of Sam’s face. The threat is met with a huff and what Dean likes to think of as a playful shove. The shove probably stopped being playful thirty some years ago, but hey, whatever.

Once Dean is up again—fuck you, gravity—he trudges over to the garage. The message to himself on the door makes him smile. Next time, he’s definitely not censoring himself.

Nearing noon, the heat of a July day forces itself over every square inch of Dean. He decides that right after this experiment in madness, their asses belong inside, where air conditioning and civilized folk belong. His search takes only a second, because while some may call him lazy, he still keeps the garage organized. There’s not a rag or a wrench out of place in the domain that is his garage.

When he teeters back to Sam, still on the front porch; he hides the package behind his arms.

“Say you love me.”

Peering up, Sam pouts. “No.”

“Say it.”

“Why?” Hazel eyes narrow. “What are you hiding? I swear, if you hid away more illegal fireworks…”

“Nah,” Dean cuts in. “I got _those_ buried. I mean… look, just say you love me.”

“Not until I am guaranteed that whatever it is you’re about to do doesn’t involve gunpowder, chemicals, or purple ketchup.”

“Man, that purple ketchup shit was two months ago.”

“Spill, Dean.”

One labored sigh precedes his big reveal. He holds out a plastic box filled with sidewalk chalk. Proudly, he declares that fun in the sun need not cost more than one dollar and ten cents over at the dollar store on 18th and Ashland. It would have cost only a dollar, but the state of Illinois has to get every dime it can from honest, hardworking, handsome…

“I wanted to use the yellow one first,” Dean whines, setting down the box and ambling over to Sam in the center of the driveway. “Sam, I’ll knock it out of your hand with my cane.”

Over his shoulder, Sam snips, “You just wanted to draw pee.”

“That is a legitimate drawing thank you,” Dean quips. “And I wanted to draw a big ass sun.”

“A sun with a big ass or a large sun?”

“Both.”

There was some of the usual resistance to the chalk at first, because Sam can never jump into any activity without thinking through it three times and then once more just to be safe. This is the product of growing up in the backseat of the Impala and motel rooms. Fun, when doled out by John, either involved chores that would “build character” or end up with Sam falling flat on his face. Or getting sunburned. Or tripping into the deep end of a pool in the middle of winter. Or being locked inside a meat cooler for forty-five minutes. Sam said it was an hour, but Dean distinctly remembers it being forty-five minutes, which is _not_ an entire hour.

This kind of fun, however, seems to be Sam’s speed.

He draws a sun and adds blue sunglasses onto it. Next to that, he attempts to blend colors, but ends up with a shit ton of chalk dust on his hands, knees, and clothes. Some of it floats into his hair.

In one valiant effort to be Bert from Mary Poppins, Sam sketches out an English countryside. He mentions that Chester has invited them to stay in Gloucnorthwestshiremiddleearth. Dean draws Godzilla smack dab in the middle of the English countryside. The image of Chester trying to outrun chalk Godzilla produces a cackle from Dean he doesn’t bother hiding.

Swear words make their way onto the pavement. Dean goes for the classics like, “ass” and “shit.” He adds “fart” and “poop” for variety.

Sam writes his name in calligraphy near the sidewalk leading to the door. Dean stares at Sam’s ass as he’s bent over, scrawling and adding more to his name.

A minute later, he steps over to Sam, wondering what the fuck he could be writing that takes so damn long. Leave it to Sam to write a novel in chalk. Dean is about to make a crack at this too—is he going to go for Southern Gothic? Romantic? Post-modern? Has he mastered the post-modern metaphor yet?

“This was written,” Dean reads out loud, “to see how long Dean would stare at my ass like I didn’t notice.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “If you noticed, Sasquatch, why didn’t you say shit?”

Shrugging and standing, then brushing chalk off his hands, Sam smiles.

“Because I like it.” And in a throwback to tempestuous hormones and the years of adolescence where Dean was perpetually two eye rolls away from strangling his little brother, Sam adds, “Duh.”

Then, there’s this fucking flip of chestnut hair. A flip. An honest to god flip.

In a growl typically reserved for difficult customers, people who cut him off on the Edens, and anyone who dares take the last slice of pie at Thanksgiving, Dean wields it full force, directly into Sam’s ear.

“Get that ass inside, Sammy— _now_.”

 

He had a list.

And like everything John Winchester expected out of his son, the list was rigid, fixed, and daunting. Ten dollars was shoved into his hands before the Impala roared off onto a stretch of autumnal highway, leaves changing all around, and the weather starting to chill.

It was September.

He was seventeen.

Fifteen items were on the list. Fourteen if he skipped hot dog buns. Why buy white bread _and_ hot dog buns? Like hot dogs were that fucking special that they needed their own bread. They could make do like any other time and roll up each dog in a piece of Wonderbread. Hot dog buns. Jeez. Why doesn’t he just make a fucking crème brulee while he’s at it?

These were the puzzles Dean was given as a teenager.

Take a ~~fifteen~~ fourteen item list to the dollar store and make it work.

He cut school to deal with it, because he couldn’t have Sam hanging around and looking at shit there was never any hope to buy in the first place. John didn’t trust Dean with one of the credit cards yet, which was shit because what’s there to trust? Dean knew the rules. He knew not to take one of those cards and go to the fucking mall to buy designer shoes and fur coats.

The Dollar General in whatever spit of a town they’d been ~~deposited~~ dumped in, was exactly identical to any other he had passed through. There were the aisles of shit hanging sadly in their wire baskets, and the woman in her mid-fifties up front whispering to the twentysomething stock clerk to keep an eye on Dean.

Judging by her body language in regards to the clerk, Dean saw his in. He could sweet talk that lady into giving him a discount. Any discount. Senior citizen’s discount, military discount, whatever. It just depended on which story he felt like turning to her and her salmon colored, acrylic nails. Which one hadn’t he used in a while? Which one could potentially be long-term? If John was actually writing grocery lists—after his ammo lists, of course—then it meant they might be stuck here for an entire semester.

Starting at the perimeter of the store, Dean tossed a package of hot dogs into the blue basket he’d grabbed up front. Proteins first. Tuna was cheap, thirty-three cents a can. Three of those rattled around in the basket with the sad package of watery looking hot dogs. One by one, he ticked off the most necessary items on the list. Clerk-dude was pretending to mark down a tower of creamed corn at the end of the aisle.

Gross.

Dean grabbed a can of kidney beans.

He had become a sous chef over the years, exceptionally trained and capable of making anything out of hot dogs. Hot dog omelets. Hot dog chili. Hot dog spaghetti. Hot dog shepherd’s pie. Hot dogs ala king—which was a delicacy, because it consisted of ingredients that signified good times for John’s wallet: canned pineapple, barbeque sauce, and biscuits.

Staring at the barbeque sauce in aisle two, Dean figured that these are not good times.

At item ten he reached the limit of how far his money would stretch.

Anxiety gnawed at him, taking its place beside the faint rumble in his stomach.

God, how fucking pathetic. How fucking stupid to be hemming and hawing over every last penny. How fucking stupid of John to keep them so off the grid that they can’t even get some stupid food stamps. If he could score credit cards, surely he could rip off the government. And it wasn’t even ripping off—Sam needed to eat. Sam couldn’t live on one egg, one slice of toast for breakfast, one peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, and one hot dog for dinner. Every single day. Unless Dean made chili or tuna casserole, but those were moot points. He would just be swapping out filler.

Clerk-dude was called up front.

With the pressure lifted, Dean continued.

He considered filling up the basket and making a run for it, but that was no long-term solution. He’d already been busted once, and if he hated anything it was being left in the bull pen to stew on purpose because John wanted to teach him a lesson.

That’s sweet, Dean thought, the old man teaching _me_ a lesson.

Huffing, Dean veered into an empty aisle full of decorative garbage. He didn’t want this shit, he told himself. That made things somewhat better.

Now, were the hot dogs going to go inside his coat or tucked into his belt under his shirt?

John never advocated outright taking shit and running. But he never discouraged Dean from practicing his sleight of hand. Fourteen items on that list, a little brother who expected to come back to their motel room with dinner in the works, the ten burning a hole in his wallet—it was all good motivation not to get caught but to do it anyway.

Until Dean saw something tan out of the corner of his eye.

It practically glistened.

Smooth, polished, and proudly standing on the shelf, it stared at him.

And when he touched it, relief rushed past the hot dogs in his breast pocket and directly into his lungs. He exhaled, practically moaning.

What kind of man fucked his brother and couldn’t feed him a decent meal?

There was, in Dean’s mind, a difference between fucking Sam and making his life better, and fucking Sam and wallowing in the same path their life seemed to be taking. He would get Sam out of this. He would force Sam away from coupons and clearance meat and mixing ketchup into spaghetti to replace tomato sauce and adding flour to shit to make it stretch and cutting up hot dogs to make it look like there were more on the plate and shaving portions of his own plate to pass over to Sam because Sam was still hungry but somewhere along the way he’d learned never to ask for seconds.

But none of that mattered that moment and all the jagged moments afterwards. Not when he left the basket in that aisle and proceeded to the front and not when he conned salmon colored acrylic nails into accepting the cash and shutting up because either he was going to pay for it or steal it, her pick.

Not when he ran to the motel room, mindful of the time.

Two. He bought two. Four fifty a piece and with tax, he even had a few pennies left.

Nothing mattered until he reached the slimy bathroom and shut the door behind him.

He blew a week’s worth of groceries on two bottles of whiskey so cheap it could fuel a car for days.

For Dean, both bottles fueled him for three hours.

They were the best three hours. Every minute was numbing warmth, fuzzy happiness, and calm, languid breathing. Every minute he sat in the aqua blue tub, his tongue thick and his eyes puffy, he was not in charge of feeding anyone. His responsibilities were grasping the bottle he was working on and sucking from it like cough medicine.

It was cheap shit. And it was delicious.

When the bottles were sucked dry, he tossed them by his feet and stared, blissed out, at the water and mold stains on the ceiling.

He wasn’t Mr. Mom fretting about the ratio of tuna to noodles.

He wasn’t the _thing_ that slipped into Sam’s briefs at night and pressed his mouth against another, less experienced one.

He wasn’t boy, son, or god dammit I told you, didn’t I? Protect your left, boy. You’re weak on the left. You got your ass kicked and it serves you right. Get up. Dean. Get. Up. Don’t cry. Be a fucking man and learn to take your punches. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me when I say: guard your left. You think a spirit’s gonna care which side it attacks? You think anything out there cares that you didn’t train properly? Answer me, son. Get up.

He wasn’t Dean, please. Dean, stop treating me like I’m five. Dean, you’re hard. Let me. Please? Just let me. I can do it just fine.

He wasn’t breathing.

The package of hot dogs were still in his coat.

 

“You scared me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something. You had your hand on my ass one minute and the next you just… froze.”

“I needed a fucking minute, okay?”

“No. You froze and you stood there for _five_ minutes, Dean.”

“Stop talking, Sam.”

“You really want that?”

“Yes.”

“You really want me to shut up? Walk out of this room?”

“Yes.”

“You really want me to go sit in my office while you stew here in the middle of the kitchen staring at the vase on the counter?”

“…yes.”

“The vase of flowers I bought you?”

“Sam!”

“No! No! You don’t get to do this! Not anymore.”

“Just leave me al—“

“You were going to kiss me before you froze up. It was gonna be a peck on my cheek and then I’d turn away but you’d put your hand here, on the side of my face, and you’d snatch a real kiss from me. What is going on? Is it me? Is it something I did?”

“Sam…”

“Just let me. Let me make things better.”

“…you’re not. You’re making things worse.”

“…”

“…”

“I… fuck. I know you’re trying to push me away.”

“So take the hint, Sam.”

“No. You got so still. I-I’ve only seen you like that…”

“Don’t.”

“Then talk to me.”

All he has to do is tell Sam.

He went to the dollar store yesterday on a whim and picked up the box of chalk. No big deal. Impulse buy. He said hi to Maria, the cashier, and she asked after Sam. He asked after Fernando. Small talk. A dollar and ten cents hit the counter and she bagged the plastic box and told him she’d see him at the museum next week, she’s taking her niece and nephew to visit.

He suggested to visit on Tuesday, because a new exhibit would be installed and she could have the first tour if she wanted. And with Sam working less, he could probably swing by and take the tour then too.

That was it.

On the walk home, he swung the bag back and forth, waving hello to neighbors, practically whistling.

The rest of the night—not a problem. He hid the box in the garage, spent an hour on the couch with Cat, then another hour with Sam and Cat once Sam finished typing up something in the office. There’s plenty of space in the living room to sprawl out, despite the smaller size of their house. There are two couches, there’s the floor, and a rocking chair that Dean had Noah make two months ago because he felt like their home was missing one more old man element. A second one is in the works for Sam.

He was fine.

He was better than fine this morning, making breakfast, watching Sam scrape his plate and ask for more pancakes. He was _jovial_ when he noticed Sam slip into short-shorts. And he was just laughing and groping and having fun with chalk on the driveway.

Sam bought him flowers on Friday.

A bundle of daises they keep on the kitchen counter to keep out of Cat’s reach.

Dean is fifty-six years old.

All he has to do is talk to his brother.

Who is more than his brother.

But he can’t look at Sam. He can’t look at the expression on that face because it looks so much like the one he had on when he jimmied the bathroom door open. Or the one when he broke down and called John from the battered pay phone outside their motel room, using some of the coins in Dean’s jeans and his own. The look of near-betrayal for having to call their father back, when all Sam wanted back then was for him to leave them alone.

Dean is certain John never knew where his hands had been on Sam.

He’s not sure how he knows, but he does.

And he’s not sure he knows not to swing a punch just now, but he doesn’t.

The first rule of dealing with someone like them is not to touch without explicit permission.

Sam breaks the rule.

“I love you,” he whispers into Dean’s hair, embracing him tight, solid.

Stupid words fumble out of Dean’s mouth. He grips onto Sam, forgetting his cane, and ignores the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

If he’d kept his hands to himself? If he’d been true to his role as older brother protecting Sam from everything, even himself? If he’d…

His own words derail the train in his head.

“Even like this?”

Like this?

Touch me like this, Dean. Touch me like this, Sam. Hold me like this. Talk to me like this. Decades just like this. Does Sam love him like this—standing in the middle of the kitchen, slumped into Sam’s hold, bawling his brains out, unable to breathe because it’s all too much? Does Sam love him like this—his eyes red, his body shaking, and the words “help me” lodged in his chest?

Over his back, one hand rubs circles as big as the chalk sun on the driveway.

The other hand cups his jaw and tilts him closer to the line of Sam’s collarbone.

So he can fall apart.

“Just like this,” Sam breathes.

It’s true.

 

A bag of chamomile meets a head shake—no.

A bag of peppermint faces the same rejection.

Finally, a bag of cinnamon spice reaches standards and receives a nod, which is countered with a roll of hazel eyes and a grumble about caffeine. Sam won’t steep the bag for more than a minute, which will make the tea weak and bland, but Dean also won’t complain.

Two minutes later, after the electric kettle simmers, Sam brings over a large mug and one powdered donut. Ten minutes after that, he brings over one of the red blankets from his office. It smells like him. It might be July, but the air conditioning and ceiling fan are on. Dean curls under the blanket. He holds one hand out.

Sam sits on the coffee table, holding his hand, until he falls asleep.

 

“Oh.”

“Huh?”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Nnn… awake now. Ugh.”

“Is it your knee?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s raining. That’s why I went, ‘Oh.’”

“We were due for rain, I guess.”

“Yeah, but any day but today would’ve been nice.”

“Uh huh.”

“Here, let’s get you off the couch. Sleep okay?”

“Mm.”

“I paid some bills.”

“Okay.”

“And changed Cat’s litter.”

“Hmm.”

“She gave me that look she always does, like she’s appalled I would do such a thing when she worked so hard to pee everywhere.”

“Pft, yeah.”

“Prop it up. There you go. Let me get the heat pad.”

“Sam.”

“Dean?”

“Is it gone?”

“Yeah.”

Daises are cheerful flowers. Dean sniffed them this morning, mid-pancake flip, and he changed their water after breakfast. With a pair of scissors, he trimmed a few stems here and there, clipping only what was necessary to fit better inside a different vase. Sam must have bought two dozen.

He scrounged around for a larger vase under the sink.

“Yahtzee,” he crowed, finding a suitable replacement.

His hands worked as usual, transferring the daises into their new home. He filled it with water, crushed a baby aspirin inside, and left it by the kitchen window near the sink. In his rush to join Sam outside, he forgot to put the empty, smaller vase away.

Sam bops Dean’s nose.

“Rest,” he murmurs with a small smile. “Are you hungry? I can whip up a grilled cheese.”

Sighing, Dean sits up. He could sleep more. Before, it never bothered him how little sleep he ran on. Now, anything less than seven hours and he’s a cranky mess. Naps throughout the day suit him—two if he can manage them and preferably with either Sam or Cat. Cat tends to shed less than the Sasquatch.

But more sleep takes him away from Sam and their Saturday night.

He’s had enough Saturday nights wallowing in self-pity.

“You changed outta your shorts,” he murmurs, disappointed.

“It’s cold.”

“You could turn down the air. I’m not made of money, you know.”

Hazel eyes flare. “First of all, _I_ pay that bill. Second, every time I try adjusting the thermostat you fly in out of nowhere—like it’s embedded into you or something—and you tell me to leave it alone!”

Picking fights with Sam might as well be awarded to Dean in the form of a PhD.

“Sam, if you wanna wear your sweat pants 24/7 like some slob, by all means.”

“Oh,” Sam snorts, “so I should just prance around in shorts every moment of the day just to please you, huh?”

Simply, Dean answers, “Yeah.”

“You’re wearing sweats right now!”

“So? I’m the one lookin’ at _your_ ass!”

“What a double standard. You get to let yourself go but _I_ have to be primped and presentable.”

Feathers ruffled, Dean adjusts his shirt, smoothing it out over his middle. “Hey, I have not let myself go. That’s bull shit.”

“I like how that’s what you answer to and not my remark on double standards.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“What.”

“I see why you go outside to sit.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You nag straight into the air.”

Dean can’t say he’s surprised when a pillow hits him in the face, but he is surprised that it took this long. Instead of grabbing another pillow and retaliating, he grabs Sam by the shoulders and smacks a wet, sloppy kiss on his mouth.

There’s a smile and a huff in return.

Nose to nose, Sam rumbles, “You love pissing me off.”

Mouth to mouth, Dean echoes, “I love pissing you off.”

Sleep or kisses—kisses are the way to go.

 

Unsurprisingly, kissing rapidly leads to move involved activities.

Many men have searched and died for god, gold, and glory. Dean has searched and died for Sam’s ass.

For some reason, unbeknownst to Dean, Sam runs two miles a day. He cut back from five, which was already five more than Dean ran a day. But the running and the occasional weight lifting have done well for Sam. His ass is still as pert and round and perfectly grope-able (a legitimate word, thank you) as when he was seventeen and starting to fill out.

But Sam’s mouth has always been a source of interest to Dean.

Specifically, Sam’s mouth on his cock.

From the beginning, Sam had talent. What he lacked in skill, he made up with pure, uninhibited eagerness, and from time to time, frustration with himself. Any resistance his throat gave and it only meant more practice was needed.

Fine with Dean.

He got blown practically every time John’s back was turned.

Even now, their particular fondness for this activity leads to an almost daily ritual. Sometimes, Dean wakes up to elegant fingers wrapped around the soft base of his cock, coaxed to hardness. Soon after, those fingers find company from one mouth belonging to a big city lawyer dressed in a crisp button down. Sam swallows; wouldn’t do to get his shirt stained.

Sometimes, Dean will make dinner, set it out, and just as soon as a fork hits an empty plate, find himself spreading his legs and being licked like dessert.

And other times, one in the morning might roll around, playful and sneaky, under dark covers and filled with whispers and short, muffled laughs.

Any way it happens, when it does, Dean inevitably closes his eyes and sinks back into the moment.

This moment.

Where they’ve moved to the living room again, because Dean wanted a stretch before they got into it. He took a lap around the house, cane tapping, Cat ignoring him as she slept away any and all human activity around her curled up in Sam’s office chair. Through the hallway, in and out of rooms, Dean ambled through the scent of coconut shampoo Sam uses and Dean does not make fun of him for, weaved in and out of the distinct, comfortable feeling of their space that said to him: “Sam is home.”

Sam is home.

The red blanket sprawls out under him, laid there by careful hands. Dean’s bum leg rests on the coffee table, propped up while his other leg spreads out, making room for Sam in the space between.

Silky strands of hickory thread over the fingers of his left hand.

With his right hand, he traces the bulge in Sam’s cheek, where his cock rests, heavy and thick. Every swipe of his thumb encourages the soft, sweet, suckling noises produced by shiny, rose lips.

Every ounce of pleasure accumulates in the base of Dean’s cock, rising to an ache that throbs all the way to the sensitive, bloated head. Sam curls his tongue underneath the crown and hollows his cheeks, seizing a gasp from Dean. Sucking, applying more pressure with his lips, Sam’s eyes close in concentration. Dean grips his chin, stroking his jaw, daring to push his hips forward a fraction.

Sam pops off with a smack of his lips.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his smirk accentuated by the smolder in juniper eyes.

Pink lips center an inch away from the leaking, twitching tip of Dean. Poised, hands over Dean’s thighs, Sam indulges in the view of what he can and will swallow until tears track down his face. The rough-slick surface of his tongue flickers over Dean’s slit, then ghosts down to the aching length of him.

Leaning back in the couch, Dean moves his hands.

“Open,” he rumbles, right hand wrapped around the so-far neglected root of him.

Hair flip.

Fucking hair flip.

Followed by, “No.”

There is no one technique to the perfect blow job. Dean taught Sam everything he knows. The key to a perfect blow job regardless of the method is to enjoy it.

And Sam loves it.

He makes Dean work for it, earn it, kisses him on the mouth while Dean’s cock bobs between them, responsive to each and every bruising kiss. Pushing, pulling, practically clawing, they spar, mouth to mouth, mouth to throat, teeth to the quivering, profound stretch of skin directly above the jugular.

Dean’s fingers slide into their familiar place over Sam’s throat.

Tentative, he presses.

Sam huffs, the ghost of a smile peeking through. He straddles Dean’s lap, firm ass grinding over the meat of his thighs. For some fucking reason, Sam still has his jeans on. For that and the audacity to say _no_ before, Dean works his fingers, bearing down.

Pressure surges. The muscles in his arms flex. He holds the flutter of Sam’s throat in his hands, rolling his hips forward, seeking friction for his exposed, flushed cock. The head of it bumps against the tent in Sam’s jeans, causing the tremor of a whine against Dean’s fingertips.

Sam thinks of everything.

Dean draws him forward. Their lips meet again. Hot puffs of their labored breathing mingle as the grind increases and the pressure rushes.

“Open,” Dean growls one final time. “Open up, baby.”

Perfect, obedient, submissive, Sam licks his lips, tilts his head back a fraction, and opens.

“Good, good Sammy.”

From the long line of Sam’s throat, Dean wrings out a moan, his fingers playing with expertise.

The position changes.

It’s quiet in the living room, save for the whir of the ceiling fan, the dim hum of the air conditioning, the gentle drip of rain against the windows, and the sound of Sam’s mouth stuffed with Dean’s heavy, hard cock. Leaning forward, with one swift stroke, Dean pushes in, resting at the very edge of undulating, velvet warmth. Sam chokes. On purpose. He rid himself of his gag reflex decades ago.

Once juniper eyes turn emerald, sparkling with fresh tears. Sam nudges forward, exhaling through his nose, looking up at Dean so he witnesses the change in Dean’s expression as he begins to deep throat. All the way down. Back up. Spit slick, Dean’s cock swells. Sam inhales.

All the way down.

Choke.

Cough.

Gag. Sputter.

Choke again.

Back up.

More spit.

All the way down.

Faster. Choke. Back up. Down. Choke. Up. Spit. Down. Fuck. Up. Moan. Down. Choke. Up. Cry. Down. Choke. Up. Moan. Down. More. More, more, more…

Dean fists a handful of mahogany hair.

Sam looks up at him, waiting, mouth half an inch away from taking Dean in again.

Not so suddenly, Dean changes the course of this. He smiles and shakes his head, then brushes Sam’s hair to the side, appreciatively carding his fingers through it. Sometimes, Sam trusts him too much.

But he usually reads Dean right.

Sam presses a tiny kiss to the twitching cock head in front of him. He pats Dean’s bum knee, then gives his thigh a squeeze. Best to move it a little, so it doesn’t get so stiff.

Standing, Sam fixes his hair and clears his throat. The tent in his jeans remains as obvious as ever. His hand ghosts over it, but he rethinks his plan. As Dean shifts, he grazes over the denim mound, refraining from unzipping.

He has Dean do that for him.

Tooth by tooth, the zipper in Dean’s care reveals charcoal briefs stretched over the impressive expanse of Sam nearly fully erect. This time, it’s Dean’s turn to look up. Sometimes, he doesn’t trust Sam enough.

“Your turn,” Sam murmurs. “Just a little.”

There is nothing about Sam that is little.

There used to be, and back then, Dean blew him three times a day. Hormones were great. Being in their fifties affords them perks they could not have imagined in that time, but Dean might give up a few of his years for that ability to keep going.

Still, this just means they have to make the best of it.

Dean does not deep throat Sam. He barely places his mouth over more than two inches of Sam’s cock.

The approach is entirely different.

Sam doesn’t want to fuck Dean’s mouth. He wants nameless, unspoken things. He wants kitten licks of the tip, sharp glides over and under the head, flickering swipes over and just slightly into the slit. He doesn’t want Dean’s hands anywhere near the shaft, the base, or on the heavy, round balls underneath. He wants sloppy attention here and only here. He wants coat after coat of spit, the ministrations of Dean’s tongue coaxing him to add to that moisture, teasing, licking, rubbing.

Braced on Dean’s shoulders, Sam’s hold begins to falter. The rise and fall of his chest accelerates. He dares to look down for one fleeting second, catching a glimpse of Dean’s tongue pounding the pink, sensitive nub.

“Stop,” Sam cries out, squeezing Dean’s shoulders. “Dean, stop.”

Dean stops.

And before Sam can get too involved in it, he yanks Sam down for a possessive, burning kiss. Steam rises between them. Sam sucks in one slow breath; Dean devours the resulting, ragged exhale.

From here, nothing is planned.

It’s only can happen faster.

This means Sam kneels on the couch, facing the wall, holding on to the cushion. It means Dean placing them chest to back, shoving Sam’s jeans down, pinning Sam against the couch with one hand as he searches for lube with the other. It means pure primal need takes over—no more teasing, no more waiting.

Dean’s entire body thrums with energy fueled by the pert globes of Sam’s ass in his hands. He nudges the slippery tip of his cock against the greedy, puckering ring of muscle that belongs to him. Only him.

Sam whimpers.

Dean takes control.

Stretching that muscle, forcing it open, driving past the resistance, Dean stuffs Sam full, ramming inside to the harsh beat of one, good, solid stroke. Hips fused, the muscle sucks him in deeper, greedy little fuck, contracting, quivering, and rippling over every inch of him.

This is only the start.

Pull back. Linger on the verge of slipping out. Feel the force of Sam’s body craving his cock, begging for it. Watch as Sam works his hips back, taking Dean’s cock on his own, his ass bouncing, back arching, thighs and legs bucking—until finally, fuck, finally, Dean begins to pound their hips together.

Fuck after fuck after fuck, he plunges into Sam. The sounds between them alter in tempo and ferocity. Sloppy and gluttonous, the muscle squelches with each drive forward, gaping and raw with every roll out.

One. Thrust all the way to the hilt. Two. Pull out completely. Three. Thrust all the way to the hilt. Four. Pull out completely. One. Two. Three. One two three one two threeonetwothreeonetwothree…

“Don’t stop,” Sam screams, “don’t stop don’t stop don’t—Dean!”

Arms wrapped around Sam’s chest, Dean mounts him from behind, becoming nothing but the voracious pounding of their hips.

In combination of agony and exquisite, shameless bliss, Sam comes.

He melts in Dean’s hold, reduced to coming in tight, merciless clenches against Dean’s cock bloated inside him and the mess of his orgasm spilling in ropes over the couch.

Into searing, compressing heat, Dean bears down, buried deep. He presses his forehead to the back of Sam’s neck and shouts out the first thick shot of his load. His hands drag over Sam’s chest as every inch of him trembles until the last drop of what he has to give wrings out.

Slumping against Sam, Dean fights off passing out.

Holy shit.

All sex with Sam is good sex—great sex.

But this kind? This kind leaves them decimated. Gone. Shivering, sweaty, sticky, sore piles of muscle and curves.

Sam is the only force on earth to make Dean feel right.

It’s fine.

He can depend on Sam to throw away the bottle of whiskey they had been using as an impromptu vase.

And later on, he’ll know he can rely on Sam to present him with a piece of fancy paper with equally fancy writing: _Dean Winchester, One Year Sober_.

In this moment, he can count on Sam reaching back and scruffing his hair, breathless but happy, his eyes closing but his chest rising.

Sam will make dinner. It won’t be hot dogs. It will be grilled cheese sandwiches and canned soup, plus the rest of those donuts and a few mugs of hot herbal tea.

Tomorrow, Dean will wake up alone, but the house will tell him what he needs to know—Sam is home.

He’ll search for a minute, tying his robe, and find Sam exactly where he was at the start of today, sitting on the front step. But tomorrow, Sam won’t be staring out into nothing. He’ll be admiring the splay of rainbow, leftover from the chalk. There might even be a remnant, a survivor that escaped the afternoon rain.

A tiny, familiar, four-letter etching on the first step of pavement from their home to the world.

Now, Sam’s voice is reason enough for Dean to close his eyes.

Quiet words feather into Dean’s consciousness.

They can stay like this, sticky and sore, for as long as he needs.

“Come on let it go…” Sam sings in a murmur. “Just let it be. Why don’t you be you, and I’ll be me. Everything that’s broke, leave it to the breeze.”

That’s the only part of the song they need. Nothing else pertains to them.

Sam gives Dean a squeeze.

He can be loved.

Just like this.

**Author's Note:**

> what...!
> 
> this started out as pure porn, but then it took an odd turn. i'm happy for that turn though. i've missed these knuckleheads. happy to work in dialogue only bits and references to weecest. thanks again to the anon who requested this song be used. it fit perfectly. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed all the feels!


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